


The Butterfly House

by Malicei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Brother Mycroft, Crossover, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multiple Selves, Multiple Universes, Not Really Character Death, Serious, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Rivalry, That's basically the premise, The butterfly effect, What if?, a tormented brat, because they're kids and also not later, in both meanings, kid!Sherlock, kid!mycroft, kinda meta, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:23:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malicei/pseuds/Malicei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhat meta in the context of exploration of multiple universes and the Butterfly Effect.</p>
<p>Young Sherlock might have all the answers in them, but first he's got to find what he's looking for with  the help of fellow eleven-year old John Watson.</p>
<p>"The older brother, Mycroft, frowns. "Sherlock, you can't be bored already. You've only ridden the merry-go-round and seen the petting zoo thus far. I thought you liked them?"</p>
<p>Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, a look which rather than convey his feelings of utter seriousness only serves to make him look comical when viewed on his sweet little face. "I did, but repeated experiences will only reduce the pleasure I derive from them as I become accustomed to them. And I didn't like it when the bunny wet itself on me!" Sherlock complained. "So I shan't do them again. And everything else is boring.""</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Formal-ish writing inspired by the children's classics I loved as a kid meets fanfiction AU tropes?
> 
> …Oh dear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft was an insufferable intellectual of a tween, Sherlock an adorable brat and they're both young enough dorks to openly enjoy the fair.
> 
> Also, setting up the basic premise.

In a universe alike to the one that is known, a young boy of around seven years holds his older brother's hand as the brother leads the child around the local school fair.

From the brother's familiarity of the school grounds, it could be presumed that the brother was currently a student at the public school (or had at some point in the past attended). Chubbier than the dark-haired, stick-thin boy, the pair were looks-wise quite distinct. Nevertheless, their shared ancestry could be deduced from the fact that the younger boy had gone and outright stated it.

"This is _boring_ , Mycroft! Your school is boring. Just because we're brothers doesn't mean I should have to go to the same school you do!" The child pouts.

The older brother, Mycroft, frowns. "Sherlock, you can't be bored already. You've only ridden the merry-go-round and seen the petting zoo thus far. I thought you liked them?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, a look which rather than convey his feelings of utter seriousness only serves to make him look comical when viewed on his sweet little face. "I did, but repeated experiences will only reduce the pleasure I derive from them as I become accustomed to them. _And I didn't like it when the bunny wet itself on me!_ " Sherlock complained. "So I shan't do them again. And everything else is boring."

Bystanders wondering at the boy's curiously large vocabulary for his age group, would have, if they had investigated, found that the child had read the dictionary multiple times after his older brother had proudly shown off his superior grasp of the English language. Sibling rivalry would always exist to a degree between the two, but Sherlock was at that impressionable age where he wished to one-up Mycroft on every petty little thing.

Despite Sherlock's efforts, Mycroft found pleasure in deliberately needling his brother up on misuse of words _("My words aren't Mally-Proper Izzum's! **(1)** " Sherlock protested confusedly to Mycroft's hysterical laughter)_ or grammar to young Sherlock's eternal frustration.

"I see." Mycroft replies, in that deliberately calm manner that proclaimed he was _far_ too mature to deal with Sherlock's silliness. "Your feelings on this matter are noted. Unfortunately, you are still to accompany me around the fair since Mummy and Daddy are too busy to come get you. As such, since you absolutely refuse to make a decision about what we shall do next, I have decided on your behalf."

Mycroft smirks at Sherlock who had suddenly paled. "And we are going to get your face painted whether you like it or not."

"NO! I shan't, I shan't, I shan't!" Sherlock protests _(He'd been a big fan of stories set in previous centuries, dressing up as eighteenth century noblemen by pulling his socks over his trousers and insisting on use of somewhat archaic words such as 'shan't' **(2)** )_ as he struggled to get free from his brother's iron hold on his arm. "Let go, Mycroft! Leggo! MYCROFT!"

Mycroft was well aware of the fact that Sherlock had a strong aversion to being painted on, after numerous incidents in their early childhood when Mycroft had decided his younger brother would be a suitable canvas and gotten paint into Sherlock's eyes. Tears and bawling were often involved, and though Mycroft always made sure to sincerely apologise (he did care about his little brother, as annoying as he could be) Sherlock had never quite forgiven him on that issue.

But children are often needlessly cruel even when they do care, so Mycroft thought little of scooping his baby brother up over his shoulder and marching over to the face-painting stall. The teenager working the stall looked on concerned at the brothers while Mycroft handed her the money. Sherlock had been struggling to escape all the while, and continued to even as Mycroft lowered Sherlock and held him to the child-sized plastic chair.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft hisses to him. "You're being embarrassing! Stop squirming!"

"You're the one who's forcing me to do something I don't wanna do!" was Sherlock's counterargument.

"Well, I've already paid for it. You have to do it now."

"Do not!"

Mycroft gives Sherlock a disapproving look. "You do."

"Why?"

"Because I've _paid_ for it, and it would be wasteful to have paid for something and not get anything in return." Mycroft replied, in an early show of manipulation that would have gone on to characterise his style as an adult. He knew Sherlock well enough that he was aware his little brother would see the logic in his argument and too, reject the possible outcome of waste.

"…Fine. You win." Sherlock mutters grumpily as he settled down, scowling at the teenager who would be face painting him even as she cooed over how 'adorable and sweet' he was.

"Dearest brother, there is no _'_ winning' in the acceptance of truth."

It was at such times that Sherlock resented his brother for being older, and annoying, and smarter and better in every way _(from Sherlock's perspective.)_ "You know what I mean!"

Mycroft's expression was already schooled into an innocent blankness that he had already mastered (due to the way he delighted in annoying his little brother.) "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"You-you-argh!" Sherlock cries in exasperation. "Just get the stupid bloody thing done with, already!"

"Sherlock!"

"What? You swear too when Mummy and Daddy aren't looking. And Mummy and Daddy say you ought to act as my role model, so I'm just copying what you do." Sherlock replies smugly.

Mycroft huffs out a sigh. "I don't have the energy to deal with your antics. Just don't do it around adults or we'll both get in trouble."

Seeing Sherlock's triumphant look that indicated he was going to crow out in victory, Mycroft hastens to add: "But since you've been naughty, I'm going to choose what's going to painted on your face."

Sherlock's mood immediately darkens, and he does his best to be difficult as a stylised mockery of a bright pink, glittery butterfly which shimmered specks of glitter all over his clothes was painted on his face.

* * *

 

"I should think you look rather adorable, Sherlock. Stop rubbing your face, it's beginning to flake off."

 _"Exactly."_ Sherlock mutters as angrily as he can.

"Sherlock…"

"Fine! Fine. It's fine. It's all fine. Don't worry about my feelings."

Mycroft is too perceptive to be fooled (and Sherlock a bit too obvious to fool anyone.) He squeezes the bridge of his nose and breathes in deeply. "Sherlock, where would you like to go?"

"Home-" Sherlock begins, then quickly amends at the long-suffering look Mycroft gets at his words. "I don't know what there is to look at."

"You mean to tell me you thought 'everything' was boring when you didn't even know what there is to look at?"

"…Shut up!"

Mycroft chooses to ignore that remark, as it had become clear to him that his brother was simply being a stubborn child for the sake of it, and that it would be a futile task to continue antagonising him. "Well, I think you would enjoy the science demonstrations, as you so enjoy hearing about my science classes and experimenting with chemistry."

By 'experimenting with chemistry', Mycroft was referring to the fact that whilst Mycroft was away on a school camping trip, Sherlock had decided to borrow Mycroft's chemistry books and test out 'experiments' unsupervised. These 'experiments' were not, in fact, detailed in any of Mycroft's books but a product of Sherlock's own imagination fuelled by the facts in the book.

Indeed, Sherlock was a very bright boy in being capable of determining the underlying concepts behind the experiments listed in the books and applying them to his own 'experiments', but Mycroft's room had suffered terribly from the property damage.

There was also the disturbing fact (to Mycroft) that the dead bodies of small animals were found ("I've been doing dissections", Sherlock had replied when questioned) in the house but Sherlock had insisted that they'd been dead when he found them and that he knew he had to follow ethical guidelines when doing experimentation. _Which was all very well for their budding little scientist,_ Mycroft had felt, _but a practical test of corpse decay in Mycroft's room behind his bed was not, in fact, alright._

Predictably, Sherlock had perked right up at the mention of a science demonstration. "What sort of demonstration? Which field of science? Will an certified scientist be conducting the demonstration, or will it be a teacher or a student or-"

Mycroft interrupts Sherlock before he could continue, as the elder of the two was well aware how enthusiastic Sherlock could become on subjects he cared about. "I'm not sure, so we'll have to see when we get there."

"Alright!" Sherlock exclaims, bouncing around as he followed behind Mycroft (like a hyperactive puppy, or perhaps a particularly excitable duckling.)

Sherlock was suitably entranced by the simple chemical reaction inside a paper maché volcano that followed. Despite the way Sherlock acted mature for his age, he was still easily grabbed by flashy lights and explosions and had insisted Mycroft give him a piggy back so he could have a clear view of the demonstration. When Mycroft had comments that he "thought you said you were too old to be carried on my back?" Sherlock had been too excited to  argue as he was usually prone to do.

"Is there more? _I'd like to see more science, Mycroft!"_ Sherlock demands from where his head was sitting right beside Mycroft's ear.

Wincing at his brother's loudness as he glances around, Mycroft notes that most of the surrounding stalls are swamped with people, and seemed an utter pain to wait for. But Sherlock was quickly becoming impatient, and Mycroft was not enough of a saint to be able to deal with that.

"Er-" Mycroft begins, before spotting an stall emptied of people  and hurriedly dragging Sherlock towards it. "What about this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stares impassively at the person manning the stall. "What's all this then?" he demands.

The man stares back, unperturbed. "This is actually a stall for you kids to meet the police, but the coppers went off for their lunch break so I'm lookin' after the stall."

Sherlock cocks his head to one side. "Why you? What do you do?"

"Me, kiddo? I'm a detective." The man seemed to think that would be enough for Sherlock's irrepressible curiosity, when it was obviously insufficient.

This caused Sherlock to turn to Mycroft, incredulously. "Mycroft, you said there'd be _science_! Where's the science in a detective?"

There was a reason why, in another universe, Mycroft would grow up to work in government, able to deal with politicians and Sherlock alike. His ability to make up plausible nonsense _('bullshit', in lay person's terms)_ was incredible, even as young as he currently was. "Of _course_ there's science in detective work!" he declares, shocked, even as he motioned with his eyes for the detective to go along with it. "But I shouldn't expect a little kid like you to have heard of the science of deduction."

Hook, line, sinker. "The science of deduction?" Sherlock asks, eyes wide, looking from the detective and then back at Mycroft.

"Yes, the science of deduction!" Mycroft proclaims confidently, even as the detective raised an eyebrow at the brothers. "You do know what a detective is, don't you, Sherlock?"

Unsure of where this was going, Sherlock gave out a hesitant "Yes…"

"And you remember what a scientist is, don't you."

A bit more confident, Sherlock replies in his childish voice: "A scientist seeks to uncover the truth behind the world, by use of logic and evidence to hypothesise, theorise and prove!"

Mycroft nods. "Well, to figure out the truth behind a mystery, a detective must use logic to piece together the facts of evidence available to prove their hypothesis on what occurred correct."

Sherlock's eyes widens to huge proportions as he instantly made the connection. "Oh! I see now!" He replies excitedly, eyes sparkling and giving Mycroft the sudden sinking feeling that he'd just unleashed a monster. He pulls on Mycroft's top insistently, indicating that he wished to be let down. Mycroft does so, all the while wondering that Sherlock was up to.

"I'm sorry I thought you were a stupid detective before obtaining all the facts!" Sherlock announces a bit too loudly to the detective in front of him (and inadvertently, the entirety of the surrounding crowd.)

"Sherlock-!"

The detective blinks, a little stunned, before giving Sherlock a funny look and dismissing him with an "Apology accepted, kid."

"I shouldn't have besmirched the noble cause of detectives by insulting them by calling a dullard like you one!" Sherlock replies with equal dismissiveness.

"SHERLOCK!"

Mycroft couldn't help but shout (at his wit's end as it were) before making a lunge at his baby brother. Unfortunately, one of the few advantages Sherlock held over his brother was swiftness, smaller size and agility, and he easily darted away into the crowd, Mycroft cursing up a storm behind him.

Giggling as he managed to lose his brother in the masses of people, he makes his escape by ducking under the tablecloth of the closest stall - and decides to have some fun. There's one of those gigantic pencils the school was selling just lying on the ground, and Sherlock finds it perfect for his purposes.

 _This experiment_ , he thinks, _shall be called 'human reactions to an unknown object physically assaulting their ankles for shits and giggles'_.

* * *

 

It takes a while  for Mycroft to realise that Sherlock's somehow found the policemen, and they don't look at all happy at having to deal with _(babysit!)_ whatever Sherlock's done now. Mycroft deals with the resultant lecture  they dish out, then glares at Sherlock, who is strangely quiet. Even as he starts tell Sherlock off, he can tell something is off and when Sherlock doesn't reply he finally asks what's going on.

To Mycroft's shock, Sherlock slumps a bit and asks quietly, "Do you hate me?"

" _What?!_ Of course not, Sherlock, what brought this on?"

"Well…" he drifts off. "I was doing some detectivey thinking and using my logic to deduce what you thought of me. And I think the evidence says you actually hate me." Sherlock practically whispered, looking away. "Because you're always saying things which show you think I'm dumb, or annoying, and you didn't defend me when the policemen were having a go at me. And I thought, _why?_ Why would Mycroft do that?"

"You didn't even want to bring me along today, but Mummy made you do it. So you value being on Mummy's good side more than your own feelings. And you were obviously annoyed at me earlier, because you kept telling me off, and you think that _just_ because I'm a little kid, I'm not worth treating seriously!" he shouted.

Mycroft is understandably more than a little stunned, that Sherlock would be perceptive enough to see the little truths behind his feelings towards Sherlock, or that Sherlock could come to such an inaccurate conclusion of the truth. "Sherlock," he begins gingerly. "While it's true I feel you can be a little slow, or irritating, or that you prevent me from taking my first choice of action-"

"I KNEW IT!"

"Sherlock, let me continue."

Sherlock glares defiantly, though Mycroft is dismayed to note a wet sheen to his little brother's eyes and feels abominably guilty.

"Sherlock, despite this, I don't hate you. If I hated you, I would have refused to put up with you at all. But I do, Sherlock, because despite all those things, I do like being with you and teaching you things, and seeing you have fun."

Though neither Mycroft or Sherlock have ever been particularly touchy-feely in their form of expression, Mycroft deems it appropriate for the situation. He opens his arms wide to invite his little brother into a hug, and, miracle of miracles, Sherlock does without even the semblance of a fuss. In return, Mycroft doesn't tease Sherlock about the growing wet patch on Mycroft's shirt.

 _"Whr ba the buddy fly?"_ Mycroft hears mumbled into his chest.

"What?"

"The butterfly!" Sherlock says as he looks up, face blotchy and red where his fair skin can be seen, and face paint flaky or running from where he'd been crying. "Why did you make me get my face painted with a stupid butterfly? I didn't even want to get my face painted, but I did it for you, Mycroft. I wanted something cool to do with science, but a butterfly has nothing to do with science apart from biology!"

 _Oh dear,_ Mycroft thinks. _Sometimes I forget how young Sherlock is when he acts so much wiser than his years, and I'm taken off guard when he acts his age. I didn't think he'd be so hung up on something that petty._ Then: _I should give him something to placate him._

"Have you heard of the Butterfly Effect **(3)** , Sherlock?" he says, surprisingly gently.

"Are you making something up to humour me, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks suspiciously, voice cracking slightly from his earlier waterworks.

"It's real, Sherlock. You can confirm my words with an outside source, and they'll say the same thing. It's so called because of the example given: a butterfly, given a single flutter of its wings, may consequentially create a hurricane on the other side of the world."

Seeing that he now had Sherlock's undivided attention, Mycroft elaborated. "It's to do with chaos theory. Don't you think it's interesting, that even such a little thing as a butterfly fluttering its wings could possibly alter the world so significantly?"

"I…guess so." Sherlock admits, grudgingly.

"Imagine - if that butterfly had not fluttered its wings at that exact moment, or if had done so at a different moment, or if perhaps the butterfly had not existed at all, what do you suppose would be the possible consequences?"

"Well…maybe the hurricane wouldn't have happened, then."

"Exactly, or maybe an earthquake would have happened instead, or the apocalypse, or the prevention of the apocalyse. Do you see now? There are so many possibilities that could arise because of the actions of one little butterfly."

Sherlock was looking at Mycroft in open wonder. "Is that why you chose a butterfly, then? To say you believed I could do anything?"

 _Well, no,_ Mycroft admits to himself. _I hadn't thought of that, but if it pleases you…_

 "Of course, Sherlock."

 

Mycroft feels a bit dirty for manipulating his baby brother as he does, but he doesn't know how else to handle Sherlock. Sherlock isn't the only one in the family who has questionable social skills. _In any case, Sherlock's happy,_ he thinks, _so the ends justify the means._

 

_Don't they?_

* * *

 

_**On the topic of the reasons behind the prevalence  of the exploration of the theme of 'multiple universes' in fiction in regards to fan-made works set within the Sherlock universe.** _

_By Nirdey Won_

_The possibility of multiple universes (though commonly explored in fiction, with an emphasis on fan-created material) remained theoretical at best in the minds of most. It is an intriguing idea, to be sure, but it is currently unlikely for methods to prove the existence of (or lack of) such within the current resources available to science._

_Its prevalence in fiction may be attributed to how the theme can …_

_…Still, probability and possibility could allow for some unreal sounding ideas to be seriously considered. That even if the universe we lived were not part of a 'multiverse', that there could not be the potential for one floating around somewhere._

_(If you hadn't quite figured it out already, our story takes place in such a place which could and did have multiple universes.)_

_If we were to take a look at one of these multiple universes, one could observe for themselves the Butterfly Effect. The Butterfly Effect refers to …_

_…For example, take the case of a universe where the older brother of the titular protagonist of the Sherlock franchise, Mycroft Holmes, was never born and Sherlock grew up an only child._

_Given the known Sherlock universe (in which their lives have always been fictional, and adapted into a television show on the BBC) is used as a baseline, the following differences are noted:_

_The most striking difference is that the characters of the BBC Sherlock franchise are not, in fact fictional. The Baseline Universe (as it will be referred to henceforth) is considered a poor example of a baseline, as it is the exception in this matter rather than the norm. However, as this is considered the 'originating' universe of the author (and readers, unless some dimension hoppers happen to coincidentally be reading), it is being used as such._

_Sherlock is seen to be more socially well-adjusted but acts in a manner considered within typical societal norms. This Sherlock never had the motivation to nurture the same lightning fast mind without the influence of an older brother, though still considered highly intelligent. He becomes a doctor for the prestige and then continues for the sake of a former trauma surgeon co-worker whom he works with at the same clinic. Dr John H. Watson befriends him but marries a woman whom John believes more 'interesting' than Sherlock and they drift apart because of it._

_It can be concluded from this that Mycroft Holmes is therefore a major influencing factor on the development of Sherlock's character._

_We may also observe John Watson's influence on Sherlock in a universe where the likely scenario of Captain John H. Watson being shot fatally in Afghanistan occurs._

_Sherlock Holmes never meets John, and his scathing remarks and cold attitude snowballs to the point that the London Police are no longer willing to cooperate with him (despite the efforts of one Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade.) Eventually, Sherlock moves into one of his family's isolated holiday homes in the mountains and is known as a brilliant, if eccentric hermit. He is an active voice in the scientific community of a range of topics (though he never willingly leaves his mountain or interacts with more than one person for weeks on end) and maintains a hobby of bee-keeping._

_Not all the 'turning points' , so to speak, have to be immediately significant, however._

_Take a universe in which a seemingly insignificant event holds some major consequences: a cashier forgets to give a family nuggets with their order in the drive through. The family, when speeding back, skids off the road in bad weather and hits a petrol station. The resultant explosion affects the surrounding area and kills or injures many with the shrapnel. It disables a young adult Sherlock searching for purpose in life (through the use of illegal drugs) by paralysing him from the neck down and he later manages to overdose from sheer boredom._

_…_

_…However, none of these preceding universes are relevant to this Sherlock's universe._

_In the Baseline Universe, Mycroft never attended his school fair with his little brother. Mycroft goes into government, whilst Sherlock eventually goes and creates his own job of a 'consulting detective', having discovered a love for detective work through other means. He meets John Watson when a mutual acquaintance introduces them, and together they solve crime. Sherlock becomes John Watson's best friend, fakes his suicide, and then is forgiven for doing so. It's an action filled life, but one both are happy with._

_But the case was that in this particular universe (known henceforth as the Fair Universe) Sherlock did attend his brother's school fair with Mycroft. Sherlock did get his face painted, see a science demonstration , meet a real-life detective and believe his brother hated him (temporarily, of course.)_

_It was the case that Mycroft did indeed explain the butterfly effect to his little brother in an effort to placate him and that by taking this extra time they were caught in a sudden downpour. Due to the downpour, they were slightly late in meeting their parents. Because they were late, Sherlock had run ahead of his slightly unfit older brother, forcing Mycroft to focus his attention on keeping an eye on Sherlock._

_Because Mycroft was focussed on keeping an eye on Sherlock, it was the case that he forgot to look both ways when he followed his little brother onto a blind corner, and was killed instantly by the lorry that he didn't hear in the storm._

_As such, it was the case that little Sherlock, a boy of no more than seven years, saw his older brother's body flung off the road and decapitated by the side of a road sign, traumatising even such an emotionally resilient boy as he._

_As this was the case, little Sherlock, lost in his shock and grief, eventually kept going over the last significant words he shared with his brother … attributing emotional significance … and that those words happened to be on the Butterfly Effect._

_This was this little Sherlock's reality, but those words led young Sherlock to wonder about the pivotal event which consequentially led to his brother's death. But without comparison, there was no way to prove any singular event or events had been the cause…_

_…What Sherlock had not accounted for was the presence of an independent variable which would serve to remedy this problem…_

* * *

 

The Sherlock who stands wide-eyed at his kitchen table is quieter and more subdued than he should've perhaps been if he had never attended that fair, but still recognisably 'Sherlock'. At the very least, the therapy sessions forced upon him had improved his social skills somewhat, though his emotional health had plummeted drastically.

Admittedly, his memories of Mycroft before the accident are vague and distant, but Sherlock remembers that day in vivid detail. It's hard to forget the sight of someone you care about get killed in front of you. Sherlock is eleven now, but he still keeps having dreams in which he relives every moment he can remember of that day.

He doesn't think it's right to call them nightmares, though the inevitable conclusion is always distressing. In his dreams, Mycroft is alive _(even if that fact always changes.)_ He's alive for Sherlock to annoy and be told off by, he can give Sherlock piggy backs and teach him stories.

Mummy and Daddy don't quite understand  why he keeps those dreams close to his heart. It seems obvious to him - because he'd be likely to forget the way Mycroft really was if he didn't. Mummy and Daddy already have, though they always pay tribute to his photograph and claim that they'll always remember him.

But they've turned him into something other than a person. He's more story than human now, if you would take Mummy and Daddy at their word. If so, you would be led to believe that Mycroft could do no wrong, that he was a perfect student, that he was always kind and caring and patient and always had time for his little brother.

Sherlock's brother got annoyed easily with Sherlock's antics, condescended at and teased Sherlock, was sometimes cruel and threatened other students that were bullying Sherlock. The real Mycroft, Sherlock had even thought, had hated him, which made it feel all the more real when Mycroft revealed that he hadn't.

The real Mycroft was not, as his parents seemed to believe, to be immortalised in a photograph. It was simply that: a photograph. But even Sherlock, with his famous apathy towards finding sentiment and great meaning in inanimate objects, was not going to be happy to find a giant bloody barn owl had knocked his brother's photograph down and shat on the frame.

"You great big stinking bird!" Sherlock shouts, flapping his arms at it in an effort to shoo it outside. "How on earth did you even get in?!"

He scowls. Perhaps he's just projecting onto the bird unwittingly, but it almost seems as if the owl is laughing at him. When he throws a bowl at it, it simply hops out of the way before returning to its original position. It continues doing so with the rest of the things in the kitchen he can find to aim at the thing.

It is utterly infuriating. He can't think of any other reasonable option at the moment except to take his lab rat and sacrifice it to the Great Winged God. It doesn't appeal to him, not only because it would be rewarding the nuisance for undesirable behaviour **(4)**. Simple operant conditioning. Duh. Sherlock had read up about behavioural modification techniques  because he'd read every last page of Mycroft's books (and Mycroft had been an incredible manipulator for a reason) and positive reinforcement of something he didn't want was only going to hinder his cause.

Namely, getting the giant flying vermin outside.

"RARGH!" He cries, leaping towards it. "What do you want?! You MUST want something."

He stops to consider it, tilting his head to the side as he scowls at it. He huffs, thinking. "You've obviously been trained to do this, though it seems not very well if the bird poo is any indication. Unless they trained you to do that too, in which case they could be hateful, immature idiots. Still, unlikely. So for what reason?"

The owl coos. _(Hatefully!_ Sherlock thinks, _taunting him!)_

He throws a fridge magnet at it, but misses and only succeeds in getting it in the pot of boiling water on the stove with a plop. Oops, he thinks as the owl just gives him an amused stare and hoots loudly at him.

" _Sherlock!_ What on earth is going on down there?"

"Nothing, Mummy!" He's too quick to reply. "Just… knocked some things over!"

"You've been making a racket for the last ten minutes _and_ I'm pretty sure I heard a bird!"

Ah. This… was not good.

"Sherlock, I'm coming downstairs, and you'd best not have captured a pigeon again for one of your experiments!"

It'd been three years and yet Mummy insisted on bringing it up every time she suspected he'd been experimenting again. It was for science! He'd protested, but Mummy didn't seem to understand how important such a noble cause was, focussing on minor inconveniences such noise and hygiene concerns regarding Subject 004, code named 'Flying Rat'. He'd thought it terribly clever of him, combining the slang term for a common pigeon with its role as a flight-capable lab rat, but Mummy had still made him release it and banned him from feeding the birds at the park.

This beast was far too evil to compare to his poor, neglected park birds. _("Hoot!")_

There was no way he'd be able to hide all this in time.

Stupid owl.

 

So when Mummy came into the kitchen disaster zone, Sherlock had already crawled into a space under the sofa - and finally discovered a curiously old-fashioned looking envelope addressed to him, and a letter on _parchment_ (!) which claimed the most _peculiar_ things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It's funny because he's doing exactly what he's claiming to not do. (don't explain the joke! :P)  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malapropism
> 
> 2\. I am a fan of David Mitchell, who did indeed dress up like that as a child (as revealed on British panel show, Would I Lie to You). David Mitchell is an adorable adult, Sherlock Holmes is an adorable adult. Therefore I think it appropriate that Sherlock be an adorable prodigy as a child who does these sort of things. <3
> 
> 3\. Yes, it IS real.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_effect
> 
> 4\. Sherlock has a tendency to think of everything he knows as 'simple' and 'obvious' even if a typically lay person might not. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reinforcement#Positive_and_negative
> 
> TL;DR:  
> Hey dis story is set in multiple universes cool  
> Sherlock franchise is our universe fictional. :c  
> IN THIS UNIVERSE REAL WOO  
> BUT fair happens, shit gets rolling  
> Mycroft literally hit by a truck.  
> SHERLOCK TRAUMATISED 4EVs
> 
>  
> 
> …./ducks


	2. Not So Stoic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what is this thing called feels  
> sherlock has feels. does not compute.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_ the strange letter reads. _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

 _Oh._ thinks Sherlock, disdainfully. _Someone's idea of a joke, obviously. Magic doesn't exist, and as far as I'm aware Mummy and Daddy are content with my current school and haven't made me apply for any scholarships for other schools._

_Except what was the point in going to such elaborate measures for a prank? Sherlock hadn't any friends who would care enough to go to such efforts to do such a thing, and neither would his enemies. Why go to all the bother for an aloof, unattached kid? Perhaps-_

"Oh! Oh, Sherlock! Is that what I think it is?"

Sherlock pauses. _That… was not the sound of absolute horror he'd been expecting. Rather the opposite, in fact. Curious. Was Mummy in on this likely prank too?_

"Mummy…" he says, peeking out from underneath the sofa, dark curls falling all over his face. "Would you happen to know why on earth there's an owl in our kitchen, or why I've just found a letter on parchment addressed to me?"

She beams. "Why, didn't you read it? It's your acceptance letter to Hogwarts! The owl's only a messenger, darling."

Sherlock slowly looks up at her in disbelief. "Ignoring the growing possibility you've gone completely mad, why would a school use an owl to deliver an acceptance letter to their school where they claim to use magic?"

"Oh, that's right, we raised you like a muggle to prevent any disappointment if you'd turned out to be a squib! It's not just Hogwarts, it's how all us witches and wizards deliver mail. "

Right. Erm.

"DADDY!" he shrieks, clamouring out from under the sofa and ignoring the other name that had almost sprung out unbidden. "Mummy's gone mad!"

He could faintly hear Daddy's reply from their private library. "Alright, what's she done this time?!"

" _Sherlock!_ I'm not mad, dear, I'm a witch."

They were going to _take her away to a special care home, and, and and_

"Why is Sherlock screaming his head off like he's just found out science isn't real?" Daddy asks as he walks in, perfectly calm and slightly amused. Sherlock had always been such a logical and rational child (at least, when Mycroft hadn't been messing with him.)

"Hogwart letter."

_"Ah."_

_Ah? Ah?! How was that an appropriate response to this series of events?_

"Mummy. Daddy. What is it that I'm missing here?" Sherlock asks because obviously he was missing some important data point (and while Sherlock could try to deduce what it was it was rather more efficient to simply _ask._ )

Daddy raises an eyebrow at Mummy, who simply smiles and pulls a polished stick from her trouser pocket.

Sherlock stared, because if you'd had asked him the moment before he would have stated with absolute certainty that there had been nothing in those skin-tight trousers (Daddy called it an early onset mid-life crisis). _It would have and should have revealed its shape, so how-?_

And then Mummy did a series of motions with it, ("wingardium leviosa!") and the sofa floated.

Sherlock's jaw may or may not have dropped open as he immediately waves his arm above the sofa, looking for non-existent strings, and then looking above and below and feeling for magnets.

Mummy was looking expectantly at him, an amused grin on her face at getting the best over her son. Daddy was looking at Mummy with that sappy lovey-dovey look of pride and something else Sherlock couldn't quite identify.

Sherlock crosses his arms as he pouts at his parents. "Alright, fine. I'll bite. How did you manage to achieve this illusion?"

Infuriatingly, Mummy laughs at him. "Oh, Sherlock. Of course you would- Oh, darling, isn't our little Sherly just such the budding scientist?"

"Of course, dear."

 _"Mummy!"_ Sherlock whines. _So embarrassing!_ he thinks, _the way his stupid parents insisted on calling him cute or whatever creative pet-names they'd decided on that day. They absolutely delighted in tormenting him, it seemed._

"Alright, alright, Sherlock. It's magic - magical people have magical cores that allow us to channel magic through a directing medium such as a wand. We direct our magical energy through our wand along with the intentions for what we want the spell to become. What I just did was cast a levitation spell."

"You- _you're messing with me_ , Mummy." Sherlock accuses, faltering. "There's no way - bollocks! _I call bollocks!_ "

"SHERLOCK!" Mummy cries out, appropriately scandalised.

Daddy frowns disapprovingly along with Mummy. "I told you he wouldn't be easy to convince, dear. Still," he says, directing his next words at Sherlock. "There's no need to swear, Sherlock."

"You expect me to _believe_ in such a load of nonsense as magic?!" Sherlock breaths, staring wide-eyed and disbelieving.

Mummy sighs, and then there was a repeat of the pseudo-Latin and suddenly Sherlock himself was floating.

Magic suddenly seemed a lot less like nonsense once Sherlock was presented with evidence to the contrary.

* * *

 

"…Any more questions, Sherlock?" Mummy asks, annoyed, fatigue evident in her crackling voice. It was to be expected - she'd been answering his non-stop questions for the last four hours.

Sherlock pauses, considering, and Mummy groans and put her head into her hands.

"Your Latin was all wrong, earlier. You were the one who insisted on a Latin tutor, and yet you yourself can't even speak Latin properly!"

 _It was completely unfair and hypocritical of her,_ he feels-

Sherlock finds himself literally speechless as some kind of magic stopped his vocal cords from working.

Mummy looks like she was going to cry when Sherlock simply starts a series of mimed actions to indicate his feelings, the last of which was the commonly understood one-finger salute (in an uncharacteristic act of defiance born of disbelief.)

* * *

 

Sherlock very, very quickly learns that any sort of crass behaviour or rebellion was to be crushed at the roots and got his miniature lab confiscated and Sherlock himself hexed.

While it was useful to understand firsthand the effects of harmless spells with malicious intent, it also quickly became annoying to be forced to hop everywhere he went, or sing every question he had to the tune of 'Mary had a little lamb.'

 

 

Everyone was glad when Sherlock finally went to Hogwarts.

* * *

 

She worries about Sherlock.

He's always been a special child, her baby boy.

How on earth she managed to have not one but two incredibly intelligent and gifted children, she's never been able to figure out. She was by no means dumb - but the way they thought just seemed so fundamentally _different_. They'd puzzled her, frustrated her - but she had adored them regardless.

She'd done her best to understand them, but never managed to grasp whatever made them tick. So she'd done her best to be understanding of their antics instead. So what if she would never fully understand? They were her boys, and she loved them unconditionally.

Losing M-

_(No)_

_(She can't quite bear to even think his name)_

She censors her own thoughts, letting her mind go blank because it's just too hard.

_(It's going to be okay, she repeats to herself. Don't think.)_

She'd never thought she'd have to bury her child.

_(Don't think about it)_

Losing her eldest was… tough, to say the least. Everyone had done their fair share of sobbing once the shock had worn off.

Except Sherlock. Sherlock has always been exceptional.

She'd been told that he'd been dealing with their loss remarkably well, which only made her worry more. Though the pair had fought constantly (as siblings were prone to do) they _had_ been very close. That blank, empty look of derision he'd given to the psychologist he'd been assigned after the accident was almost hurtful.

Yes, children bounced back more easily- but the _way_ he seemed to move on so quickly?

It was part worry and part fear that had washed over her, irrational as it had seemed to fear her baby boy. She was no stranger to the strange and unnatural, but to see Sherlock acting the way he did, well.

It made her wonder if there was some truth to the accusation his former psychologist had thrown at him before she'd gotten him fired.

_"You're a psychopath, you know that?! Your brother was decapitated in front of your eyes and you don't even care!"_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes, ignoring the strange tinge of pain in his chest (he should get that checked out, he thinks idly.)_ What can he say to that? He knows how it looks. Hell, he's not convinced the man's not right.

 _So he says the only thing he can think of to object to. "I'm not a psychopath. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your_ research. _"_

_He's well aware of the hypocrisy of the last statement, but the so-called psychologist had already proven himself to be a fraud. Someone who had actually studied the field would have known that there was no bloody difference between the terms, this idiot kept switching between calling himself a psychologist and psychiatrist._

_Which was just plain wrong, because he'd noted the certificates the guy had proudly put up on his wall. Most licenced psychologists would hold a doctorate in their fields, whereas psychiatrists were actually doctors (medical degrees and all) who specialised in psychiatry. Big difference. Most people wouldn't take too much note of such a 'minor detail'._

_To Sherlock, even the 'littlest' of things could be the all-important clue._

_Of course, all that wasn't particularly relevant when the only degree the man had was a so-called 'Doctorte in Emotional Health' at 'Harvard Universitty'. Sherlock was also fairly certain the man's name wasn't 'Bigg Wang', even if the blond-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian somehow did happen to originate from South-East Asia._

(The man really should fire his counterfeiter, Sherlock thinks.)

_At the man's spluttering, he leaves the room and takes a petty satisfaction in slamming the door hard enough he hears the frames fall off the wall._

* * *

 

"Mummy," he asks, apropos of nothing. "Did Mycroft know magic? Was that boarding school he went to actually Hogwarts?"

Mummy freezes before she sighs. "Yes, and _yes_ " she says, so quietly that Sherlock was unsure she'd said anything at all.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then: "Why couldn't he have stopped the lorry, or levitated himself out of the way, or-"

"…Oh, Sherlock." Mummy's eyes are watery. "Magic is- _well._ Magic isn't all-powerful. We may be witches and wizards, but we're still only _human._ "

He swallows down the ugly feeling in his chest.

"Sherlock." Mummy says sadly as she wraps her arms around her little boy, heartbroken at her only child left. "You wanted to know why he had to die?"

He allows her to hug him, because pride or not, he does actually love his Mummy. Sherlock nods into her chest, slumping into the comfort of her arms.

" _That's life,_ Sherlock. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and sometimes, sometimes things happen that we just… can't control."

"…It's not fair. It's not fair! _It's not fair!_ "

She kisses his forehead as she begins rocking him in her arms. "Life isn't fair, Sherlock." and then, when he doesn't say anything: _"I'm sorry, sweetheart."_

That was the final straw. Sherlock's body shudders before Mummy's blouse grows wet and Sherlock begins sobbing outright, shaking with how unaccustomed he was to this overwhelming dump of emotion.

" _I miss him so much, Mummy._ He was such a _prat_ and he always teased me, but I didn't want him to _die,_ Mummy!" Sherlock wails. "I , I, I miss him so _much_ , Mummy" he sobs, hiccupping and face growing increasingly blotchy. "I wanted to show him how much better I can do than him, but now I can't, I can't, I can't because _he's dead._ "

Mummy closes her eyes in sorrow, just holding him safely in her arms.

He's just her hurting little boy, and yet he'll never fully belong to anyone. _He's far too independent to tolerate that,_ she thinks, _and isn't that just another one of Sherlock's painful truths?_

She only wants to protect him from the world, but he'd never be happy then. Too curious and too smart by far. And that means he'll get hurt more than she'd like him to, reckless brat that he is. They won't always be around to take care of him. (She'd hoped that his brother would, but it turns out that was true for him too.)

He'll grow up too fast, she realises, but he'll always be her little boy.

Still, it doesn't stop the fact she wishes he wouldn't need to deal with such painful realities.

So caught up in her thoughts, Mummy almost doesn't hear his next words. She's not even sure he meant to say them.

" _Why's he got to be dead, Mummy?_ Why's he have to go off and _die?_ "

It breaks her heart.

"…Oh, _Sherlock_."

There is no witty defensive comeback, no assurance that he is "just _fine_ , Mummy, stop being such a _worrywart._ "

Just a boy who _understands too much_ and for once is having a hard time dealing with the truth.

She may not be able to do much. She's not been able to protect him, and she can't bring back the dead.

But she can hold him tightly and listen, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE I DID LISTEN IN PSYCH CLASS
> 
> Also, gah, keep switching from present tense to past tense like a noob.  
> Also remembered to use terms such as 'lorry' and 'trousers'. I'm Australian, not English. While I likely am better aware of Britishism than say, a typical American, it's probable I've missed a few.
> 
> I did actually mean to accomplish something noteworthy plot-wise this chapter, but this story has other plans such as dealing with those pesky feelings. It seems to want to be loooooonnnggg as a doorstopper of a novel.
> 
> We'll see. I'm well aware this story probably has a very niche appeal. :P


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